Sometimes He Makes Me Sick
by Vintage Tea Party
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is difficult enough to take care of on a normal day. But when Sherlock and John contract food poisoning at the same time, John isn't sure which will kill him first, the illness or Sherlock. Sherlock will painfully learn that sometimes the good doctor does know best
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock could feel the pain in his sleep long before he awoke. His stomach was cramping intensely and it was causing his sleep to be anything but beneficial. It was a rare occasion that he was sleeping and even rarer that he actually wanted to sleep. He and John had just concluded a case and Sherlock hadn't slept for five days. They had come home, eaten some take away, and then both gone to bed immediately afterward. Now that the case was over, Sherlock was exhausted and he had looked forward to getting some much needed rest.

But it seemed his stomach had other ideas. The pain was coaxing him out of sleep even though he fought it. Apparently, the food had not agreed with him. They would have to remember not to get take away from that Chinese restaurant again. He tried to focus on going back to sleep, willing himself to calm down. He knew that if he acknowledged the pain, focused on it, that it would get worse. If he could just get himself back to sleep he would probably sleep through most of it.

He drifted in and out of sleep for what seemed like forever before he realized his stomach was not only cramping and getting worse by the moment, but also nauseous. Sherlock didn't get sick and he didn't want to be sick now. He glanced at the clock and the green numbers read 4:45 am. He still had a lot of sleep he wanted to get but when his stomach rolled so much to felt like it was inside out he couldn't get out of bed fast enough.

He ran to the bathroom and he was so focused on his goal that he had not noticed it was occupied until he was already bursting through the door. John was already hanging over the toilet gripping the sides of it as if for dear life in mid-vomit when Sherlock burst in. Sherlock had to swallow down his own nausea for a moment and try to compose himself.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock wasn't sure exactly why he asked it. What a stupid question to ask. He just had not expected John to be here and he did not want him here.

"What does it look like?" John looked like he was in as much agony as Sherlock felt. Sherlock tried to suppress the nausea that he, until a moment ago, had been full intentions of giving into. It was a bad enough idea to get sick alone, in the dead of night, when no one would know. There was no way he was going to vomit here in front of John. But as John vomited again Sherlock knew he was losing the battle. He tried not to pay attention to what John was doing but it just coaxed his stomach to give in to the same fate; taunting him, daring him to fight it.

Sherlock knew he was losing the battle and would soon be sick himself so he hoped that he could at least usher John out. "John, are you finished yet?"

John finally looked up at Sherlock. No, glared was a better word. John glared at Sherlock with a ferocity that Sherlock had never seen directed at him before. He looked like he might punch Sherlock if he wasn't feeling so lousy or weak. "I'm a little busy here at the moment, if you don't mind."

Sherlock could only see the nausea, it was all he could hear and feel, it was all that existed. Sweat was beading up on his forehead and he felt a little dizzy. He pushed John back a little and bent over the toilet completely giving into it. He was appalled as he got sick twice in a row. How could he possibly have so much in his stomach?

When it appeared that nothing more was coming out at this moment, he sat down on the cold tiled floor. Vomiting provided a slight relief but not as much as he had wanted. And it left his stomach sore and his throat burning. Sweat covered his body making him cold and shaky.

"Oh, Sherlock," John said looking a little annoyed. "You could have given me a little warning." John, who had not been prepared, and therefore did not look away, when Sherlock got sick, was now getting ready to get sick again himself. When he was done he laid down on the floor, wrapping his arms around his midsection, and curling up on himself.

"This is revolting," Sherlock moaned. His stomach was making noises and motions that told him he would get sick again. How was that even possible?

"Its pretty terrible. But throwing up isn't the end of the world you know."

"That's a matter of opinion."

Sherlock fought it fiercely. He'd already gotten sick, twice. Shouldn't that be the end of it? It was bad enough that he'd lost it in front of John once. He took deep breaths and swallowed to force the nausea down.

"Don't fight it," John said. He was still lying on the ground curled up in pain with his eyes closed.

"What are you taking about?" Sherlock said, hoping his actions weren't that obvious. John wasn't even looking at him for crying out loud, surely Sherlock wasn't that readable.

"You're trying not to vomit. Its best just to get it over with. Your body is trying to get rid of something and this is the fastest way to do it. If you suppress it you'll only prolong and intensify your pain," he said glancing at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye.

"Its alright; you don't have to be embarrassed with me."

Sherlock scoffed. "I'm not embarrassed."

John just looked at him. That face of his that said 'oh really?' He was not fooled.

"I simply do not have to get sick again. I threw up twice already. There surely isn't anything left in my stomach." John probably didn't mind seeing Sherlock throw up; he was a doctor after all. But Sherlock minded John seeing him get sick.

"I wouldn't be so sure of that." Almost, as if on cue, Sherlock's stomach lurched upward quickly and he just barely made it over toilet. He was wrong; there had been more-a lot more. That was too close; it had happened so quickly he'd almost not made it. His body was now out of his control.

An hour later, Sherlock and John were both lying on the floor of the bathroom, tired and miserable. Every 15 minuets one would vomit followed by the other. Sherlock had stopped counting how many times he had thrown up and he was disgusted with himself, with his body for betraying him like this. They were both curled up trying not to move, as the slightest motion would bring on the overwhelming nausea. It wasn't comfortable; the floor felt good right after you vomited and were hot but it soon got cold and it was hard. It wasn't comfortable, but it was safe. And that's something you really needed when your stomach was being so unstable.

"John, what's wrong with us?" It occurred to Sherlock that he should have asked this sooner but he had not thought about it until now. This dreadful sickness was so all consuming that it was slowing down his thought processes. Something would have to be done about this.

"I think its food poisoning. It could be the flu but with the quick onset and severity of our symptoms and the fact that we experienced them at the same time, I would say its food poisoning of some kind or the other."

"I shouldn't have let you talk me into trying that new restaurant."

"Me? You were the one who wanted Chinese food."

"Yes, but it was your idea to try that new place out."

"It had good reviews! Besides, this could happen anywhere. Its no one's fault really." John groaned. "I don't think I'll ever eat Chinese food again, so it doesn't matter."

"I'm not sure that I'll ever eat again. I always knew it was nuisance. Here's the biggest piece of evidence."

Sherlock groaned. Food poisoning. Great. Well, he decided he was done with this. He'd gotten rid of all of the stupid Chinese food; he knew that for a fact. The last time he'd gotten sick there hadn't been anything left except bile, which was truly appalling. And if his body had rid itself of the problem then there was no reason to continue to vomit.

He pushed himself off the floor. He felt weak and shaky and he had to take his time because he was dizzy. At the movement, his stomach rocked, but he pushed the nausea down, determined to will it away.

"Where are you going?" John asked.

"I am going to get some sleep."

"You really think you can?" John asked incredulously.

"Well, I don't intend on spending anymore time here on the bathroom floor. I'm done with being sick." Sherlock said it like that closed the issue entirely, and left the room.

"All right then," John said from his place on the bathroom floor. He knew he wasn't getting any sleep anytime soon so he didn't plan on leaving the safety of the bathroom. Sherlock could pretend that he could just will his illness away but John knew better than that. This thing wasn't going to be over anytime soon and Sherlock would be back. He laid his head down and closed his eyes and waited for the next wave to come over his stomach.

**Oh no! Sherlock and John are sick at the same time? What will they do? Please follow and review ****:)**


	2. Chapter 2

John hadn't been asleep for very long, five minuets tops. He could tell he'd just dozed because he felt a million times worse than he did before. His body ached from where he'd been laying on the hard bathroom floor and he was cold and shivering. It took a moment before he realized what it was that had woke him; Sherlock was calling for him.

He sounded urgent that John was on his feet the next moment. Food poisoning was usually not a serious condition but sometimes there were complications. He ran through the possibilities in his head as he ran (or what could pass for running with how weak his legs were) to Sherlock's room.

When he got there he found Sherlock sitting on the side of the bed with his head over the bin. "What is it Sherlock?"

"I vomited in the bin," he said it as if it were the worst thing that could possibly happen to him.

"You had me to come in here, just to tell me that?"

John's stomach, which was getting sick at the slightest movement, did not appreciate the jog down the hall. And now that John knew there was no danger, it reacted. He grabbed the bin from Sherlock and made use of it since he knew he would not make it back to the bathroom in time.

When he was done he glared at Sherlock. "As much as I appreciate the update, you can keep them to yourself from now on."

"John…" Sherlock was using a slightly whiny voice. Great, he was going to be one of _those _patients. "What are you going to do about it?"

"What do you mean 'what am I going to do about it?'"

"Well, you are a doctor, you know how to treat illness," he said it in a way that told John it should have been obvious what he meant.

"There's nothing I can do."

"What do you mean?"

"There's not much you can do to treat food poisoning."

Sherlock found this answer unacceptable. "There must be some kind a medication I can take."

John felt bad for Sherlock. He looked miserable. He knew how Sherlock was feeling because he felt the same way at the moment. But he also knew that illness was not something that Sherlock dealt with on a regular basis and the fact that he was actually asking for help meant he was desperate. All of that made it more difficult to tell him what he had to say next. "There is no medication. You just have to let it pass."

"John, I don't have time for this, please just tell me what to take and I'll take it."

"I'm serious. There is nothing you can take. Trust me, if there were I would have taken it already. You honestly just have to ride it out. You just have to wait until your body rids itself of intruder."

Sherlock paused for a moment before he spoke. "So, you're telling me I'm practically a slave to my body and its impulses? That I just have to give in to these symptoms?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Well, there must be something I can take for the nausea, something to stop the vomiting."

"You really shouldn't take anything for that."

"And why not?"

John sighed. For once, Sherlock was actually asking for medical advice, was actually asking John how he could take care of himself and John had nothing to tell him. "Because you have ingested something infectious and the vomiting is your body's way of getting rid of it. If you stop that then your body won't be able to get rid of it. It will make the illness last longer."

"But there's nothing left in my stomach anymore," he said it quietly like it was the world's darkest secret.

"But whatever is making you sick is still in your system. I'm telling you, the best way to deal with this is just to give into your body and let it deal with the illness. Don't fight the vomiting; it will only make it harder on you." John was so tired. He didn't want to give any more medical advice; he just wanted to sleep. But even still couldn't help from slipping into doctor mode.

"Food poisoning isn't serious but you can run into complications. If you start to run a high temperature, experience double vision, or see blood in your vomit or stool let me know because that is serious."

"You're telling me I have to let my body be in control and you say that's not serious."

"Sherlock…"

"O.K. O.K. Fine, I promise." Sherlock had no intention of doing any such thing if the need arose but he said it just to get John to be quiet. Sherlock laid down on the bed and wrapped his arms around his middle and groaned. "How long is this going to last?"

"I don't know. It can last anywhere from one to ten days."

"Ten days? You must be joking."

John grabbed his own aching stomach "I wish I was." He walked around the other side of the bed. When he sat down, Sherlock looked at him.

"What are doing?"

"I'm going to try to get some rest."

"In my bed?"

"Yes," he said laying down far on the other side of the bed with his back to Sherlock, "You will undoubtedly need me for something and when you do I am not going to jog all the way from my room. Besides, your room is so much closer to the bathroom than mine."

Sherlock didn't say anything more. John assumed he saw logic in this statement. John was just glad for the silence. He felt miserable and this was one time he didn't have much energy to put up with Sherlock and his antics. Sherlock was hard enough to take care of when John was well. He wasn't sure how he was going to do it when they were both sick. For both of their sakes, he hoped that this passed quickly.

* * *

Somehow, John was able to sleep for a little while but it wasn't a comforting sleep. It was a strange sleep and it did not provide an escape from his pain. He felt the nausea in his stomach and the pain was spreading lower. That was what finally brought him out of his sleep. Apparently, the contagion that had caused the vomiting was spreading through his system. His lower stomach was cramping so badly and by the time he finally woke all the way up he knew he had to use the toilet-now.

He ran to the bathroom. The pain had been so consuming that he had not noticed that Sherlock wasn't in the bed and when he got to the bathroom and pushed on the door he found it was locked. "Sherlock! Let me in!" He couldn't hide the panic in his voice.

"John, I am a little bit busy here, if you don't mind," he said in an exasperated voice.

Now he was using John's own words from earlier against him. Cute. Too bad John wasn't in the mood for cute. "Sherlock, you open this door now! I need to use the toilet."

Sherlock sighed heavily on the other side of the door. "I would think it would be fairly obvious that it's occupied at the moment."

John's insides burned. The pain was so bad he was breaking out in a sweat and he actually thought he might pass out. He leaned against the door and pounded on it for good measure. He would kill Sherlock if he didn't open this door soon. "You can vomit in the bin, I need the toilet for…other things."

He really hoped Sherlock wouldn't make him spell it out. After a pause, that felt like a small eternity, Sherlock spoke. "It's already being used for other things."

Oh. Apparently, Sherlock's symptoms were right on the same timetable as John's. That was unfortunate. John groaned and sank to the floor. "Why in the world do we only have one bathroom?"

He was really only talking to himself, so when Sherlock answered he was not too happy. "John, I don't really want an audience, could you leave?"

John wasn't actually sure he could get off the floor. "Sherlock-Just shut up and finish so I can get in. Believe me; I'm not paying attention to anything by myself."

This was the truth. John couldn't see anything or hear anything past the pain. He took deep breaths and just focused all of his energy on waiting. He was really beginning to think that he might not actually make it, when finally Sherlock opened the door.

Sherlock looked down at John and in a very calm voice, one used for making small talk and talking about the weather, said "That was not a symptom you mentioned."

John said nothing, just crawled, literally, into the bathroom and shut the door.

**Oh no! Things just keep getting worse for our favorite consulting detective and doctor. I am glad for the excitement you all are showing on this story so far. Please keep it up ****:) **


	3. Chapter 3

A long time later, John staggered out of the bathroom. He knew there was no way he was going to get anymore sleep since it was apparent that this new unpleasant symptom was now going to accompany the vomiting. The sun was just starting to rise anyway so he figured he just would just stay up.

He found Sherlock on the couch in the living room and went and sat beside of him. John couldn't remember the last time he felt so sick. There seemed to be no relief from his symptoms. He'd get sick but the pain and nausea was still there. He could tell Sherlock was feeling the same way though he was exerting a special amount of energy into looking like he wasn't sick. He was also still trying to fight his symptoms. Sherlock could try and fight it if he wanted to but John knew he was too tired to pretend he didn't feel miserable.

They sat there for a rare moment of silence. It was interrupted only by a very loud and foreboding noise that came from Sherlock's stomach. John had a hard time not laughing at that. Sherlock could put on a brave face and try to pretend that he was the one in control but there were some things that were not in his control. Despite the fact that he felt so horrible, and he knew that Sherlock did too, he couldn't help finding the situation somewhat humorous. Sherlock looked down at his stomach and made a face at it like a parent gives to a rebellious child who had said something they shouldn't have. John barely heard him mutter "vile stomach" as he got up and visited the bathroom again.

The humor was very short lived though and as soon as Sherlock vacated the bathroom, John had to make use of it. He was convinced that eventually he would die there but when that didn't happen he left the bathroom feeling completely empty inside. He shivered and went to get a blanket off of his bed and took it with him. John could see Sherlock had pulled one of the bins close to the couch. _Good idea, _he thought.

He got a glass of water from the kitchen though he wasn't sure he could drink it. Dehydration was their biggest concern at this point so he knew he should be drinking; he just didn't know if he could trust his stomach yet. He got a glass for Sherlock too and made his way back to the couch.

John handed him the glass. "You should try to drink some water."

"I don't want to," he said setting the glass on the table.

"Really, Sherlock, we don't want to get dehydrated."

"I said 'I don't want to.'"

John didn't fight him anymore on it. Sherlock went days on end without eating and he probably didn't drink as much as a normal person anyway so he would probably be fine. John wrapped up in his blanket and took extra comfort in the softness and warmth of it. He decided he would brave a drink of water. He took the slightest sip and it seemed to be fine. He took a larger drink but found that to be a mistake. His stomach rebelled at it and it was in the bin the next second. Apparently, he couldn't drink any water yet.

Sherlock looked at him out of the corner of his eye. "Don't even say it," John told him.

"Say what?"

"I told you so."

"I wasn't going to say that."

"Yes, but you have that look on your face."

"What look?"

"The 'I'm-Sherlock-Holmes-and-I-am-so-much-smater-becau se-I-knew-better-than-that' face. I don't want to hear it."

It looked like Sherlock was trying not to smirk at that. "Do you still think its best to allow your body to be in control? You can't even drink water."

"But I will be able to. Eventually. Yes, this is the best. Trust me. I know what I'm talking about. Besides, even if it weren't what could I do about it anyway? You tried to ignore symptoms and look how long that lasted."

Sherlock just scowled at John. John didn't feel like getting a lecture from Sherlock or debating with him so he turned in the T.V. A marathon of a program he liked was on and he was glad. He was so sick and tired, he knew that there was nothing he could do but sit and mindlessly watch T.V and hope that it distracted him from how bad he felt. And now that Sherlock was also incapacitated (though he tried to pretend otherwise) maybe John could actually get him to watch the show too.

* * *

An hour later John was wishing he hadn't even turned the TV on. "They're plastic aliens?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes."

"Aliens that are mannequins? And they're killed by something called 'anti-plastic'? Very original. Seriously, John you find this entertaining?"

John rolled his eyes and sighed. "Yes, I do."

"I wouldn't go around confessing to people that this is something you actually find entertaining. Its so ridiculous it doesn't make you look that intelligent."

"Sherlock, you can't judge a show just by its first episode."

"Of course you can. The first episode of a show is designed to draw viewers in. I'm not impressed. Its completely unscientific. Aliens, time traveling; its all rubbish."

"You know some things don't have to make sense, they're just meant to be fun."

"I don't see what's fun about something that can't be logically explained."

John should have known better. Did he really expect anything different from Sherlock? John had spent most of the hour vomiting in the bin and rushing to the bathroom. Sherlock had spent a great amount of that time in the bathroom as well but he still seemed to catch every detail of the show and criticize it to pieces. While John might have laughed at it another time he felt so sick that it really just got on his nerves.

"If you don't like it, you don't have to watch it."

"I don't plan on it." John watched him as he got up and went to the bookshelf, picked up a book, and brought it back. It occurred to John that Sherlock had not thrown up in the full hour.

"Sherlock. Why aren't you vomiting anymore?"

Sherlock started at his book and didn't answer the question. John knew that look on his face. "Sherlock…did you take some medicine?"

"Perhaps."

"Sherlock, I told you not to!"

Sherlock finally looked up from his book to John. "These symptoms are unacceptable. And I really don't see how they're getting us any further. What is beneficial about vomiting when nothing comes up? Its so revolting."

"I already told you I don't mind. You don't have to worry about it."

"But _I_ mind. I don't see how the vomiting will help when there isn't even anything left in my stomach to vomit up."

John just shook his head. Of course, he had given Sherlock advice and he had chosen to ignore it, as usual. "If you took medicine to stop the vomiting then there is only one other way for the poison to leave your system. It will take longer and it will be more unpleasant."

John watched as thought crossed Sherlock's face. He had not thought of that. Sherlock knew there was something seriously wrong with his thought processes that he had not thought that far ahead. Dread filled his mind at the thought. He would have to do something about that.

But John knew what he was thinking. "And please don't take medicine for _that_. I'm serious; the best way to deal with this is to let nature run its course."

John missed most of the next episode on the T.V. Between vomiting in the bin and fighting Sherlock for the bathroom, his attention was focused elsewhere. Now that Sherlock had disregarded John's advice, he was spending an exorbitant amount of time in the bathroom and John wasn't getting his fair share. And he hated Sherlock for it.

As he lay on the floor waiting for the bathroom for the millionth time it seemed, he couldn't help but grumble terrible things at Sherlock. He was pretty sure Sherlock couldn't hear them because he didn't reply. Why couldn't Sherlock just listen to him? Why did he always he always have to make things so difficult? Sometimes Sherlock really made him sick.

One time when he came back, he found Sherlock on the couch with his blanket. "Hey, that's mine."

"I was cold," Sherlock said shrugging.

"And of course you couldn't be bothered to get up and get your own," John said just falling on the couch. He had so little energy he didn't even fight Sherlock for it.

John dozed off and the early afternoon seemed to provide some relief. The T.V was still on and John was pleased that he had only had to visit the bathroom twice throughout the course of an episode. The symptoms were spacing themselves out, so that was good. Very good.

Sherlock, however, looked miserable. He hadn't been off the couch at all in the last hour and though he said nothing, John could tell he was in terrible pain. He was curled up against the arm of the couch and he had his eyes closed. He hadn't even criticized the telly the entire time since John had woken up from his nap.

"Sherlock, how are you doing?"

At first he didn't answer. John wondered if he was asleep. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock sighed, heavily, "I don't feel well. Obviously."

"Is your pain worse than it was earlier?"

"Yes," he said quietly.

"When did that start?"

"Not long after you went to sleep. A couple of hours ago."

"How are your other symptoms since then?"

"Please, don't interrogate me like I'm one of your patients."

"I'm just trying to find out what's wrong, find out what brought this on."

"Well, just leave me alone."

John could see that Sherlock was trying to hide something from him and knew what that meant. "You took more medicine didn't you?"

Sherlock didn't answer. John groaned. Why did Sherlock have to make everything so hard on himself? Now his illness was going to last even longer and be worse for him. The symptoms were unpleasant but they were the only way either one of them was going to get better. There was nowhere for Sherlock's pain to go now except to stay in.

"I really wish you would have listened to me. You know, I do know what I'm talking about once in a while."

"John, I really am not in the mood for a lecture right now."

"I know. I'm sorry." Sherlock really looked miserable and John wasn't trying to lecture him. It would do little good anyway; the damage was already done. And Sherlock must really feel terrible if he couldn't conceal the amount of pain he was in. His face was red and his forehead was creased in pain. He gripped his stomach.

John felt bad for Sherlock. He could be a real pain sometimes but he didn't want him to suffer, even if it was partly his own fault. John got up and went to the bathroom to get Sherlock a hot water bottle. Sherlock still had his eyes closed when John returned. "Here." He said handing it to him.

"What's that for," he said eying it.

"It will help with the cramps."

"Thank you," Sherlock said taking it and holding it against his stomach. John could tell it was a genuine thank you.

"You're not use to being sick are you?" John asked.

"I don't get sick. Ordinary people get sick."

"Oh. Well you sure aren't one of those," John said with a smile. He was glad when Sherlock returned it.

**As usual, Sherlock didn't listen to John. But he's going to pay for this one ;) **  
**I am so glad that you all are so excited about this story. Your reviews make me happy!  
**


	4. Chapter 4

**Here's a long chapter because you all are so lovely ****:)**

Somehow, John had been able to fall asleep again. He took it as a sign that maybe he was on his way to getting better. But Sherlock must also have been feeling at least slightly better because the next thing John knew he was being woken up by him.

Sherlock was just staring at John when he groggily pulled himself out of unconsciousness. He jerked back. "What are you doing?"

"You were snoring," Sherlock said simply.

"Yeah. So, what?"

"It was keeping me up."

"Again, I say 'so, what?'"

Sherlock sighed heavily. "I want to go to sleep too."

"Is that the only reason you woke me up?" John was so tired. He hadn't gotten much sleep when they were on their previous case either and he'd gotten practically no sleep the night before. That, combined with being very sick, made him very tired. And being very tired combined with Sherlock made for a not happy John.

"Yes. If I go to sleep before you then we can both go to sleep." Sherlock, of course, thought that this solution only made the perfect sense.

John sat up a little and got right in Sherlock's face. "You listen to me. If you wake me up again I will kill you. You are not the only one who is sick here, if you haven't noticed, and I need my sleep too. If you wake me up again it better be because you're dying."

A small flicker of surprise crossed Sherlock's face before he backed away with a "Hmmm"

John knew he shouldn't but he asked it anyway. "What?"

"You make a very good doctor but you are a very poor patient. I find it interesting that you are so tolerant of others' illness but you are very intolerant of your own."

Leave it to Sherlock to learn something from an insult. He calmly laid back on the couch and closed his eyes. John tried to come up with something clever to say but all he came up with was "whatever." He laid back against the couch but he was so riled up it took him a while to fall asleep and he knew Sherlock was a sleep before he could find his way back to sleep. Sherlock had gotten what he wanted, as usual.

* * *

A few hours later, the sun was setting and evening was approaching. John woke up and felt so good that he thought he might actually be able to eat something. He tried to drink water and it stayed down. The past day without water caught up with him and he had to stop himself from guzzling the water down he was so thirsty.

Sherlock was still asleep on the couch and he was glad for it. Things were so _quiet_. John was careful as he got off the couch and made his way to kitchen, being careful not to make any noise that might wake Sherlock. John was not surprised to find that they did not have any food that was appropriate for people who were coming off food poisoning to eat.

He briefly thought about what to do. He actually felt hungry. It was a weird hunger; he felt like he was starving and that he was nauseous at the same time. But since the hunger was actually more prominent than the nausea he figured he should eat. But he really didn't want to go to the store; he felt pretty good now but his stomach was very unpredictable and he wasn't sure when that might change.

But he knew that no one else was going to go and they literally had nothing that would be safe for him or Sherlock to eat, though it would probably be awhile before he decided to eat. John threw on the first thing he could find, just to be presentable, and made his way to the small pharmacy not too far from their flat. It wouldn't have a good selection like the grocery store would but it would be enough for what he needed.

John tried to shop as fast as he could. He had felt pretty good at home but now that he was dressed, out, and walking around he was feeling weaker and sicker by the moment. Even though he threw items in his basket as fast as he could, barely even looking at what he was buying, he stomach decided to do wild things the minute he stepped in the store and he still ended up having the use the toilet before he left. Was this _ever_ going to end?

* * *

Sherlock woke up while John was gone. As much as he had wanted to sleep he was now almost as glad to be awake. His sleep had been fitful and he'd had the strangest dreams. He partially attributed it to the sickness and partially to the absurd television that John had wanted to watch. With John gone, he quickly turned it off and delighted in the silence. He wasn't sure that he wanted to sleep if his mind was going to do such strange things. It was one thing to be sick but he didn't want it to affect his mind. He had not known that sickness could impact his mind in that way and even though it was in unconsciousness it was still unacceptable.

He found that he didn't feel any better than he had when he had gone to sleep. This dreadful day was never ending. He was freezing cold and his body ached and he pulled the blanket tighter around him. He'd been able to stop the unpleasant symptoms that he had been experiencing but they had lead to other ones. His stomach was no longer nauseous but it cramped viciously as did his lower stomach as well. And now there was no relief from it, not even a brief moment of it.

He thought for a second that John might have been right. After all, if he wasn't here, then he had felt well enough to go out, and Sherlock knew that he didn't feel well enough to go out, no matter what the cause. He just had wanted to stop all of his body's disgusting _urges_. It was all so horrible he had just wanted it to stop. He started to sit up when he heard John coming up the stairs but his head start to spin so much that he put it down quickly; he wouldn't want John to see and start questioning him about it.

John came in with a couple of bags and saw that he was awake. "Oh, you're up. I went to the store, if you feel like anything." He didn't ask Sherlock if he wanted anything; Sherlock knew that John knew better than to ask that. He saw John stumble a little and could see that John was still feeling poorly himself.

John went back to his bedroom and changed and came back, another blanket in hand. He went to the kitchen and came back with a glass of water, some crackers, and a cup of Jello. It looked revolting. "You're actually going to eat?" he asked incredulously.

"Yes. Amazingly enough I have an appetite. Do you want anything?" he said waving the food towards Sherlock. He backed up from it and grimaced.

"No."

"I bought some soup and popsicles too but I don't feel well enough for that."

"Stop talking about food."

"Still not feeling any better?"

"Not really."

"You should drink some water. You'll be able to keep it down now."

"No," he said closing his eyes. He was unbelievably still sleepy. His mind also felt strange; groggy and just kind of heavy. He didn't like the feeling at all.

* * *

It was late, the middle of the night, when John heard Sherlock calling his name. The flat was bathed in darkness and was quiet except for Sherlock's cries. It seemed to take forever for John to find his way out of his foggy sleep state of mind, mostly because he didn't want to find a way out of it. He'd actually found his way to sleep, deep sleep, and he didn't want to come out of it. He'd spent the whole day taking care of Sherlock while taking care of his own sickness and he was not happy to be awoken now since Sherlock was undoubtedly too lazy to get something for himself and wanted John to get it.

John didn't even open his eyes when he spoke. "Sherlock, whatever it is that you need, get it yourself. I'm sick too you know and I need _my_ rest. I thought I made myself pretty clear earlier."

"John…please." That's when John noticed it. Sherlock's voice sounded strange, different than usual. It sounded weak and a little…panicked? John's eyes flew open and he saw in the darkness that Sherlock was sitting in the floor against the couch.

John turned on a lamp and got up to help Sherlock get back up on the couch. "Sherlock what are you doing on the floor?" John helped Sherlock off the floor and Sherlock let him which told John that something was wrong. "What's wrong?"

"I don't feel right."

John was instantly into doctor mode. "What are you feeling? Are you having different symptoms than you were?"

"My head, it feels so heavy, like everything is just spinning. I was getting up to go to the bathroom but I was so dizzy, I had to…sit down."

"You fell down," John said it as a statement not a question. Sherlock was in the floor; he wouldn't have chosen to sit down there. This was bad.

"Yes," Sherlock admitted.

"Is your stomach pain worse than it was?"

"No. Not really. I just feel strange. My mind, it isn't working right"

Sherlock looked feverish and when John put his hand on his forehead it was hot. "I'm going to get the thermometer and take your temperature." John got up on his own weak and shaky legs but managed to make it to the bathroom and back. In his head he was running through a list of food poisoning complications and what might be ailing Sherlock at the moment. Why hadn't Sherlock just listened to him earlier? Now he was really sick.

When John got back to Sherlock he was sitting in the same spot. His eyes were just kind of glazed over and he was staring off at nothing it seemed. It wasn't like when he was deep in thought; there was nothing in his eyes right now. John put the thermometer in Sherlock's ear and waited the three seconds it took for it to take the reading. John froze when he saw the reading: 40.3

He tried hard not to panic. He had to do something now. Fast. "Sherlock, you have a really high temperature and we need to get it down now." He grabbed Sherlock's arm and slung it over his shoulders to help lead him to the bathroom. He wouldn't even try to convince Sherlock to go to the hospital; he knew that was a lost cause. And truth be told this was quicker.

It must have been a site to see him half lead, half drag Sherlock to the bathroom as he stumbled himself. But somehow his own illness was forgotten and he managed to get the two of them back to the bathroom. "John, what are you doing? I just want to lay down."

"I know you're dizzy but your temperature is 40.3. We need to get it down now." John stood Sherlock by the tub and ripped off his dressing gown and pyjama shirt. "I need to get you cooled down and this is the fastest way."

"I'm already so cold," Sherlock complained but John was able to get him to lower himself into the bathtub.

"I know and I'm sorry but this is for your own good. Its this or the hospital" He turned the cold water on full blast and let it shower down on Sherlock. He knew that that last comment would be enough to stop Sherlock from protesting John's treatment but he did feel sorry for Sherlock. He just lay there, shivering as the cold water rained down on him. He scrunched up on himself and pulled his arms to his chest looking very young.

John bent down to the tub and reached a hand out to cover Sherlock's eyes from the water. John wanted the water to be falling on Sherlock's head but he looked really pitiful just sitting there as water hit him in the face soaking and weighing down his curls.

They sat there like that for a long time and John was also shaking now from the cold before Sherlock asked "How much longer John?"

John knew if Sherlock was asking he was feeling at least a little better and more like himself. John looked at his eyes and they didn't seem to look quite so hazy and he didn't look as lethargic. "Are you feeling better?"

"Well, I'm freezing and soaked so in one sense, no. But my mind does feel a little better. A little clearer. It was so strange. I never knew sickness could affect my mind that way."

"That was scary, huh?" John knew that he wouldn't admit it but it bothered Sherlock a lot that this fever was slowing his mind down and making it hard to think. The physical symptoms of the past 24 hours were bad enough but they had not affected Sherlock's ability to think. He could deal with physical problems but not mental ones.

But Sherlock didn't answer, just kind of shrugged. John reached over and turned the water off. His stomach made an ominous sound and he stopped. Now that things were calming down a bit, his stomach was demanding to be paid attention to. In the moment he had been able to forget his own physical state. It was how he survived medical school and his shifts in the hospital. He could forget his own physical state in the moment a patient needed him.

He leaned over quickly to the toilet just in time to get sick. So, much for the dinner he tried to eat, if you could even call it that. When he was done he looked over at Sherlock. "Sorry."

Sherlock just kind of shrugged again. He might feel a little better but John could tell he wasn't feeling good yet. He wondered how much the shower had brought Sherlock's fever down. He handed Sherlock a towel. "Here. I'll go get you some dry pyjamas and you can change."

He brought a set of pyjamas back to Sherlock and helped him as he stood and got out of the tub. "The good thing is that soon that medicine you took should be wearing off and you'll be able to get sick again."

Sherlock looked at John like he was crazy. "And that's a _good _thing?"

"Yes, believe it or not. Your body needs to get rid of whatever poison you ingested. Without it being able to leave your system its just setting in your body. That's probably why your fever is so high. Trying to kill off whatever it is."

Sherlock looked thoughtful, no doubt remembering the advice that John had given him that he had ignored. But he said nothing.

"You'll be able to walk back to the living room?"

"Of course." Sherlock said, like it was ridiculous to think otherwise. Obviously, he was choosing not to remember their stumble down the hall.

"Alright then," John said turning and starting to leave.

"John."

"Yes?" he said stopping.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

John went to kitchen while Sherlock changed. He got a glass of water and a popsicle from the freezer. When Sherlock came back he handed them both to Sherlock. Sherlock stared at John but before he could say anything John interrupted him. "It will help lower your temperature."

For once Sherlock didn't argue. He drank the water and ate the popsicle (a sight John thought he would never see) and shivered the whole time. "How do you feel now?"

"Better but not good. My mind feels clearer but still foggy and I'm still really dizzy. And freezing."

John got the blanket and gave it to Sherlock. "You shouldn't cover up too much but you can put this on. I'm going to take your temperature again." The thermometer read 39.5. It was still high but it was on its way down. "You're temperature is still high but its going down which is good. I'm going to get you some medicine to take while you can still keep it down."

When John came back, Sherlock took the medicine and drank the glass of water without complaint. A compliant Sherlock-this was not something John was use to. He either really felt horrible or the fever shook him up more than he wanted to admit. John guessed it was a combination of the two.

John sat down in the couch beside Sherlock. He was exhausted. This event had taken away the small amount of energy he had. He knew he needed to get some sleep soon because Sherlock would soon be experiencing unpleasant symptoms and would undoubtedly be waking John up again. He turned the lamp off and was settling into sleep when Sherlock spoke.

"I'm sorry."

It not only startled John because it had been quiet and he wasn't expecting Sherlock to speak but also because he didn't expect to hear those words from Sherlock. "What?"

"I'm sorry. I should have listened to you. You were right."

John couldn't believe it. Who was this man sitting beside him, because it wasn't the Sherlock he knew? "I said what I did before because it was the truth. Its not like I wanted you to suffer."

"I know that John." He said it like it was obvious but he was the one who had not listened to John's advice. He closed his eyes and settled in, obviously trying to ignore John and forget the fact that he had just apologized.

John smiled. Sherlock had not only apologized but had also admitted that he was wrong and John was right. John wouldn't say that getting sick was worth it but it was definitely a silver lining in this whole thing. He had taught Sherlock a lesson. This sickness was a strange thing indeed.

**One more chapter left for this story. Hopefully, our boys get well soon! **


	5. Chapter 5

When John woke up the light was bright in the room and he could tell it was late morning. His muscles ached and protested as he sat up on the couch. He was elated when he realized that he had slept for hours and his stomach had not awoken him. How had he managed to sleep so late? He assessed its current situation and while it felt nauseous and shaky he was pretty sure he wasn't going to vomit. He would take that for now.

But he started to get concerned when he realized that Sherlock was not on the couch beside him. How was he doing? What was his temperature like? He was just about to go searching for him when he heard noise in the kitchen.

"Sherlock? Are you in there?"

Sherlock came out of the kitchen looking pretty worn. His pyjamas were rumbled and his dressing gown hung off of one shoulder. His curls were a mess and he walked less than stable. The sight was so funny to see and John put a hand to his mouth to stifle a laugh. Sherlock was carrying a cup of tea and a plate with two pieces of toast.

"Well, you must be feeling better," John said gesturing towards the food in Sherlock's hands.

"They're not for me; they're for you," he said giving them to John. John was surprised to say the least. Sherlock had actually made him food? He really must be feeling badly about not listening to John; he was still trying to apologize. This version of Sherlock took some getting use to.

"Thank you," John said taking them. He tried the tea and found his stomach didn't totally rebel at it but he set aside the toast for later when he trusted his stomach more. Sherlock didn't have anything for himself as he sat back down on the couch. "Are you going to eat anything?"

Sherlock shook his head in response. John looked at him and tried to assess how Sherlock was feeling but Sherlock was so good at hiding things he knew he wouldn't get an accurate assessment. "How are you feeling?"

"Not well, but better than last night."

"How is your temperature?"

"Its higher than normal but much lower than it was."

"That's a good sign. Your temperature was relativity easy to decrease so that means its probably not too serious," he said trying to encourage Sherlock.

After a pause, John asked "And the other symptoms?"

"They returned as you expected they would."

"Very bad?"

After a pause Sherlock answered. "I was up most of the night."

John was surprised. Sherlock had been up and down all night and he had not woken John up. Had he really been that out of it? "Wow, I missed all of that. I'm sorry."

"Sorry? Why?"

"Well, for not waking when you tried to wake me up."

"I didn't try to wake you up. I tried to be as quiet as I could."

Sherlock had not only left John alone all night after the incident with his fever, but he had also tried extra hard not to unintentionally wake him up. After his behavior throughout the previous day John was surprised. He was also grateful. "Thank you."

"I know I was…difficult yesterday. I didn't mean to make your illness harder though I know I did. And I did wake you up in the middle of the night and you did need your rest. You are quite the grumpy patient." He said the last part with a smile.

"Grumpy? You're one to talk," John said smiling back at him.

"I'm just glad you're a better doctor than you are a patient."

It was hidden quite well but John could hear that was a thank you.

* * *

"It had to have been victim!" Sherlock shouted.

"It wasn't the victim."

"It must have been the victim. It's the only logical explanation!"

"Its not in the rules."

"Then the rules are wrong," Sherlock said ripping the Cluedo board off the table, stabbing it to the wall with a knife and storming off towards his bedroom.

John felt like ripping his hair out. They had been cooped up in the flat for four days and they were driving each other crazy. John had pretty much been better since that morning after Sherlock had the high temperature. He'd still struggled with nausea but he hadn't thrown up anymore.

Sherlock on the other hand was just now getting over his sickness. He had listened to John's medical advice since them but he had made John miserable the entire way. He did what John told him to do but he had complained the entire time. Gone was the compliant and apologetic Sherlock that John had seen briefly; he was back to his annoying and problematic self.

John had put his foot down and made Sherlock stay in and get some rest. Every day that Sherlock got stronger he got more and more annoyed. John had tried to keep him occupied but that was a job to say the least. But he decided that as soon as Lestrade or anyone else called with a case, they were going out. Sherlock was well enough now and John hoped it was sooner rather than later. John heard a ruckus coming from Sherlock's bedroom and wondered what kind of trouble Sherlock was getting himself into now. Yes, Sherlock was feeling like himself again and John was glad that this entire dreadful illness was behind them both. John rolled his eyes and went to investigate what Sherlock was doing now.

**That concludes "Sometimes He Makes Me Sick." A huge thank you to all who read, followed, and reviewed. You made this story a lot of fun! I am currently writing a few things that should be ready to post soon so make sure you follow me so you don't miss them (yes, that's me shamelessly self advertising!). **


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